43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
T he pool table glows under hanging lamps, the green felt a vivid island in the dimmer light of this corner. Soren hands me a cue stick, his fingers lingering against mine during the transfer. The weight of it is foreign yet familiar, like a paintbrush from someone else's collection. He moves around the table with the fluid grace of someone in their element, arranging the colorful balls in their triangle prison, each click as they settle against each other oddly satisfying. His eyes flash amusement as he looks up at me, rolling the white cue ball between his palms like he's warming it to life.
"Rules are simple," he says, placing the cue ball on the table. "You're either stripes or solids, depending on what you sink first. Get all your balls in, then the eight ball. Sink the eight ball early or scratch on the eight, you lose automatically."
I nod, memories of college game rooms surfacing. "I remember the basics. Though it's been years since I've played."
Soren grins, chalk dust rising in a small blue cloud as he preps his cue. "Like riding a bike, I bet. Ladies first?" He gestures toward the table with a flourish that makes me smile despite my nervousness.
"You might regret that," I warn, though I'm not at all confident in my abilities. Positioning myself at the end of the table, I lean over, trying to remember the proper stance for breaking. The cue feels awkward in my hands, too long and unwieldy. I take an experimental stroke, missing the cue ball entirely on my first attempt.
Heat rises to my cheeks as Soren fails to suppress a chuckle. "Sorry," I mumble, readjusting my position.
"Here," he says, stepping closer. "May I?" He waits for my nod before moving behind me, his body a warm presence at my back. "Loosen your grip a bit," he instructs, his hands ghosting over mine to demonstrate. "You're not strangling a snake, you're guiding the cue."
His proximity sends my heart into a gallop, but I focus on his instructions, forcing my white-knuckled grip to relax. "Like this?"
"Better," he approves, his breath warm against my ear. "Now, keep your bridge hand steady—that's the one on the table—and use your back hand to control the force."
I try again, and this time the cue slides smoothly between my fingers, connecting with the white ball with a satisfying crack. The balls scatter across the table, bouncing off cushions, but none drop into the pockets.
"Not bad," Soren says, stepping back to give me space. "Nice and controlled. My turn now." He moves around the table, eyeing the layout with a strategist's gaze. "So," he continues casually as he lines up his shot, "tell me something I don't know about you, Lydia."
The question catches me off guard. "Like what?"
He shrugs, the motion fluid and natural. "Anything. What's your favorite time of day? Do you talk to yourself when you paint? Secret talent for yodeling?"
I laugh at the last suggestion, the sound echoing in our little corner. "No yodeling, I'm afraid. Though I might clear a room if I tried."
Soren grins, then takes his shot, sinking a solid red ball into the corner pocket with practiced ease. "Solids it is," he declares, moving around the table for his next attempt. "So? What's something real?"
I watch him line up another shot, admiring the confident set of his shoulders, the focused intensity in his eyes as he calculates angles and force. "I do talk to myself when I paint," I admit softly. "Full conversations sometimes, as if the canvas can hear me."
Soren's eyes flick up to mine, something warm kindling in their purple depths. "I knew it," he says with satisfaction, then takes his shot, sinking another solid with ease. "What do you talk about?"
I shift, uncomfortable but somehow willing to share. "Everything. Nothing. Sometimes I explain my color choices to an imaginary critic. Other times I just... narrate what I'm feeling as I work."
Soren nods as if this makes perfect sense, circling the table for his third shot. "Art as therapy. I get that." This time, he misses, the cue ball glancing off his target and sending it spinning harmlessly against the cushion. "Your turn, Lavender girl."
I approach the table, studying the layout with fresh eyes. There's a striped ball positioned nicely near a pocket, and I carefully line up my shot. "What about you?" I ask, glancing up at him. "Any quirky habits I should know about?"
Soren leans against his cue, watching me with that intensely focused gaze that makes my skin tingle. "I sing in the shower," he offers. "Loudly and badly, much to the pack's dismay."
The image makes me smile as I take my shot, satisfaction blooming when the striped ball rolls smoothly into the pocket. "Stripes for me," I announce, a hint of triumph in my voice. "What do you sing?"
"Whatever's stuck in my head. Last week it was nothing but Taylor Swift. Lucian threatened to remove the hot water heater." He delivers this with such deadpan seriousness that I burst out laughing, nearly missing my next shot.
The ball still drops, however, and I move around the table with growing confidence. "So you're the troublemaker of the pack," I observe, lining up my third attempt. "Somehow I'm not surprised."
Soren places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "I prefer 'spirited' or 'free-thinking.' Troublemaker has such negative connotations."
My third shot misses, the cue ball skirting just past my target. "Your turn, 'spirited' one."
Soren approaches the table with a predatory grace that's fascinating to watch. "Actually," he says, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful as he lines up his shot, "every pack needs someone who pushes boundaries. Questions things." The ball drops into the pocket with a satisfying thunk. "Otherwise, you end up with stagnation. Blind obedience."
There's something in his voice—a subtle undercurrent of old pain, perhaps, or firmly held conviction—that makes me suspect he's speaking from experience. "Is that how your pack works? Everyone having a different role to play?"
Soren nods, his focus seemingly on the game, though I can tell he's choosing his words carefully. "Balance," he says, sinking another ball. "Lucian leads, but he listens. He needs to. Each of us brings something different to the table." He misses his next shot, straightening up with a slight frown. "Finn is our steady rock. Elias nurtures. I..." he hesitates, a shadow of something vulnerable crossing his features. "I challenge. I question. I make sure we don't get too comfortable in our ways."
The admission feels weighted, significant. "That can't be easy," I observe softly, stepping up for my turn. "Playing devil's advocate in your own home."
"It's not always fun," Soren agrees, watching as I sink a striped ball with more skill than I expected to have. "But it's necessary. Especially for a pack like ours."
"What do you mean, 'a pack like yours'?" I ask, genuinely curious. From what little I know, their dynamics seem unusual—three Alphas and an Omega, all equals in a world where such equality is rare.
Soren's expression turns thoughtful. "We're not traditional," he says, stating the obvious with a wry smile. "We don't follow the old rules about who can be with whom, or who leads based solely on designation. We built something different."
I miss my next shot, the cue ball rolling harmlessly past my target. "That sounds... challenging," I say, thinking of my own family's rigid adherence to tradition.
"It was. Still is sometimes." Soren takes his turn, his movements precise and controlled. "But worth it. We all found each other at different times, for different reasons. But the common thread was wanting something more than what conventional pack life offered." He sinks another ball, leaving him with just two solids and the eight ball. "What about you? Before you left your family's pack. What was that like?"
The question lands like a stone in still water, ripples of memory spreading outward. My fingers tighten around the cue. "Restrictive," I say finally, the word bitter on my tongue. "Every aspect of my life was planned according to what was 'appropriate' for an Omega. My art was tolerated as a hobby, nothing more. And when I refused an arranged mating..." I trail off, the old hurt still raw despite the time that's passed.
Soren's eyes darken with understanding. "They gave you an ultimatum," he guesses, his voice soft but edged with something harder, protective even.
I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "The pack or my freedom. Not much of a choice, really."
"And yet, many would have chosen differently," Soren observes, no judgment in his tone, only a quiet respect that warms me from within. "It takes courage to walk away from everything you know."
I look up, caught by the intensity in his gaze. "It didn't feel like courage at the time," I admit. "It felt like survival."
"Sometimes they're the same thing," he says simply, then takes his shot, missing perhaps deliberately, though I can't be sure. "Your turn, Lavender girl."
The nickname, which started as a playful tease, now carries a weight of affection that makes my heart flutter. I step up to the table, grateful for the chance to collect myself. The game provides a welcome structure, a back-and-forth that makes the intimate conversation feel less overwhelming.
"So," I begin, lining up my next shot, "how did you find them? Your pack?" The question has been lurking in my mind since I first met Elias,and grew stronger with each new member I encountered. How did four such different personalities come together to form something so cohesive, so enviably harmonious?
Soren leans against his cue, his posture casual but his eyes alert, watching me with undisguised interest. "Elias and I met first, at a farmers market one county over from here. He was selling those preserves of his, I was..." he pauses, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Let's just say I was in between jobs."
"Why do I get the feeling that's a euphemism for something less than legal?" I ask, taking my shot and sinking another striped ball.
Soren's laughter is rich and unrestrained. "Your instincts serve you well, Lavender girl. I was, shall we say, creatively acquiring resources."
"You were stealing," I translate, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
"Such a harsh word," he protests, still grinning. "I prefer 'redistributing wealth.' And only from those who could afford it."
I shake my head, moving around the table for my next shot. "So how did a thief and a jam-maker end up together?"
"He caught me picking the wrong pocket," Soren says, the memory clearly a fond one. "Instead of turning me in, he bought me lunch. Said I looked like I needed it more than I needed jail time." His voice softens. "He was right."
The admission peels back another layer of Soren's carefully constructed persona, revealing glimpses of a harder past than his carefree attitude suggests. "And Lucian and Finn?" I prompt, missing my next shot by a hairsbreadth.
"Lucian found us about a year later. Elias was doing well with his market stall by then, and I was..." he pauses, choosing his words. "Let's say I was exploring more legitimate business opportunities."
"Still stealing?" I guess, raising an eyebrow.
"Only occasionally, and with much more discretion," Soren defends, taking his turn at the table. "Lucian was passing through town, caught Elias's scent, and something just... clicked." He sinks another ball, leaving him with just the eight. "Sometimes you meet someone and it's like your souls recognize each other. Like you've been searching your whole life without realizing what you were looking for."
The description resonates with me in a way I'm not entirely comfortable examining. I think of my first meeting with Elias, the inexplicable pull I felt toward him despite my usual caution. The same sensation I've experienced with each of his packmates since.
"And Finn?" I ask, my voice softer than I intend.
"Finn came last," Soren says, circling the table as he searches for the perfect angle on the eight ball. "He was running from his own demons, much like the rest of us. Found refuge in our little makeshift family." He glances up at me, his purple eyes holding mine. "We've all been broken in some way, Lydia. That's why we recognize it in others. In you."
The words hit with the force of truth, leaving me momentarily breathless. Before I can formulate a response, Soren calls, "Eight ball, corner pocket," and makes his shot. The black ball rolls true, dropping into the designated pocket with a finality that matches the weight of his revelation.
"Game," he says softly, straightening up to his full height. There's no triumph in his expression, only a quiet intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"You win," I acknowledge, setting my cue aside. "Though I think I held my own reasonably well for someone so out of practice."
"You did," he agrees, stepping closer. "Rematch someday?"
"I'd like that," I say, meaning it. The thought of future evenings spent like this, talking and playing and simply enjoying each other's company, fills me with a warmth I haven't felt in a long time.
"Good," Soren says, setting his own cue aside. "But for now, I think I owe you one more dance before I take you home. If you're up for it?"
The question hangs in the air between us, laden with more meaning than just a simple dance. It's an invitation to continue this connection, to step further into the world he and his packmates inhabit, a world so different from the cold isolation I've wrapped around myself for so long.
"I'd like that too," I reply, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. Soren's smile is like a sunrise breaking over mountains, gradual but breathtaking in its beauty. He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation, our fingers intertwining with an ease that feels both novel and somehow inevitable.
As he leads me back toward the dance floor, where a slow song has just begun, I reflect on the strangeness of the evening. How I started out nervous and uncertain, clinging to the edges of my comfort zone, and now find myself willingly following this enigmatic Alpha further into uncharted territory.
"What are you thinking about?" Soren asks as he draws me into his arms, one hand settling at my waist, the other holding mine against his chest.
"How different this is," I answer honestly. "From what I expected. From how I usually am."
"Different good?" he inquires, his head tilting slightly as he studies my face with uncharacteristic seriousness. I consider the question as we begin to move with the music, our bodies finding that same easy rhythm we discovered earlier. Different, yes. Unexpected, certainly. But good?
"Yes," I say, the word simple but weighted with certainty. "Different good."
Soren's smile turns softer, more intimate. "You're full of surprises, Lydia," he murmurs, the words brushing against my temple like a caress. "I'm looking forward to discovering every single one of them."
I should be afraid of such a declaration. The old me would have retreated, thrown up walls, made excuses to flee. But as we sway together on the dance floor, surrounded by strangers yet somehow perfectly isolated in our own world, I find I'm not afraid at all.
Instead, I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent—sandalwood and spice, complex and alluring—and allow myself to simply exist in this moment. With this man. In this unfamiliar but increasingly appealing new reality.
"So am I," I whisper, the admission both terrifying and liberating. And as Soren holds me closer, his heartbeat steady and strong against my cheek, I realize with startling clarity that I mean it more than I've meant anything in a very long time.
Whatever path these four men are leading me down—whatever surprises and challenges await—I want to follow it. To see where it leads. To discover not just their secrets, but perhaps, finally, my own as well.